THE PRELUDE: OR, GROWTH OF A POET'S MIND
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEM  1800

BOOK FIRST

Introduction - Childhood and School Time


OH there is blessing in this gentle breeze
A visitant that while it fans my cheek
Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings
From the green fields, and from yon azure sky
Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come
To none more grateful than me; escaped
From the vast city, where I long had pined
A discontented sojourner: now free,
Free as a bird to settle where I will.
What dwelling shall receive me? in what vale			10
Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove
Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream
Shall with its murmur lull me into rest?
The earth is all before me. With a heart
Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty
I look about, and should the chosen guide
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud
I cannot miss my way. I breathe again!
Trances of thought and mountings of the mind
Come fast upon me: it is shaken off,				20
That burden of my own unnatural self,
The heavy weight of many a weary day
Not mine, and such as were not made for me.
Long months of peace (if such bold word accord
With any promise of human life),
Long months of ease and undisturbed delight
Are mine in prospect; whither shall I turn,
By road or pathway, or through trackless field,
Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing
Upon the river point me out my course				30

   Dear Liberty! Yet what would it avail
But for a gift that consecrates the joy?
For I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven
Was blowing on my body, felt within
A correspondent breeze, that gently moved
With quickening virtue, but is now become
A tempest, a redundant energy,
Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both,
And their congenial powers, that while they join
In breaking up a long-continued frost,				40
Bring with them vernal promises, the hope
Of active days urged on by flying hours, -
Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient thought
Abstruse, nor wanting punctual services high,
Matins and vespers of the harmonious verse!

   Thus far, O Friend! did I, not used to make 
A present joy the matter of a song,
Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains
That would not be forgotten, and are here
Recorded: to the open fields I told				50
A prophecy: poetic numbers came 
Spontaneously to the clothe in priestly robe
A renovated spirit singled out,
Such hope was mine, for holy services.
My own voice cheered me, and, far more , the mind's
Internal echo of the imperfect sound;
To both I listened, drawing from them both
A cheerful confidence in things to come.

   Content and not unwilling now to give
A respite to this passion, I paced on				60
With brisk and eager steps; and came, at length,
To a green shady place, where down I sate
Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice
And settling into a gentler happiness.
'T was autumn, and a clear placid day,
With warmth, as much as needed, from the sun
Two hours declined towards the west; a day
With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass,
And in the sheltered and the sheltering grove
A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts			70
Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was made
Of a known Vale, whither my feet should turn,
Nor rest till they had reached the very door
Of the one cottage which methought I saw.
No picture was the of mere memory ever looked
So fair; and while upon the fancied scene
I gazed with growing love, a higher power
Then Fancy gave assurance of some work
Of glory there forthwith to be begun,
Perhaps too there performed, Thus long I mused			80
Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon,
Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks,
Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cups
Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at once
To the bare earth dropped with a startling sound
From the soft couch I rose not, till the sun
Had almost touched the horizon; casting then
A backward glance upon the curling cloud
Of city smoke, by distance ruralised;
Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive					90
But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took,
Even with the chance equipment of that hour,
The road that pointed toward the chosen vale.
It was a splendid evening, and my soul
Once more made trial of her strength, nor lacked
AEolian visitations; but the harp
Was soon defrauded, and the banded host
Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds,
And lastly utter silence! "Be it so;
Why think of anything but present good?"			100
So, like a home-bound labourer, I pursued
My way beneath the mellowing sun, that shed
Mild influence; nor left in me one wish
Again to mend the Sabbath of the time
To a servile yoke. What need of many words?
A pleasant loitering journey, through three words
Continued, brought me to may hermitage.
I spare to tell of what ensued, the life
In common things - the endless store of things,
Rare, or at least so seeming, every day				110
Found all about me in one neighbourhood -
The self-congratulation, and from morn
To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene.
But speedily an earnest longing rose
To brace myself to some determined aim,
Reading or thinking; either to lay up
New stores, or rescue from decay the old
By timely interference: and therewith
Came hopes still higher, that with outward life
I might endue some airy phantasies				120
That had been floating loose about for years,
And to such beings temperately deal forth
The many feelings that oppressed my heart.
That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light
Dawns from the east, bit dawns to disappear
And mock me with a sky that ripens not
Into a steady morning: if my mind,
Remembering athe bold promise of the past,
Would gladly grapple with some noble theme,
Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she finds			130
Impediments from the day to day renewed.

   And now it would content me to yield up
Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts
Of humbler industry. But, oh dear Friend!
The Poet, gentle creature as he is,
Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;
His fits when he is neither sick nor well,
Though no distress be near him but his own
Unmanageable thoughts: his mind, best pleased
While she as duteous as the mother dove			140
Sits brooding, lives not always to that end
But like the innocent bird, hath groadings on
That drive her as in trouble through the groves;
With me now such passion, to be blamed
No otherwise than as it lasts too long.

   When, as becomes a man who would prepare
For such an ardous work, I through myself
Make rigorous inquisitions, the report
Is often cheering; for I neither seem
To lack that first great gift, the vital soul,			150
Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort
Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers,
Subordinate helpers of the living mind:
Nor am I naked of external things,
Forms, images, nor numerous other aids
Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil
And needful to build up a Poet's praise.
Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these
Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such
As may be singled out with steady choice;			160


To be continued